DISCLAIMER: I do not own Skyrim. I own only the characters Ophelia Millais and Theldyn Mehra.

This is a story I thought of in a canon e-play with a good friend of mine, but after a period of inactivity I began writing this in order to better portray and in turn understand my characters Ophelia Millais and Theldyn Mehra better. I grew to love them more than mere role-playing characters, so I amalgamated my drabbles into one long, serious OC fanfiction, and added a great deal more to it. I hope you enjoy.

(Rated M for violence, language, and minor sexual themes and references.)

Part One: The Bandit Camp

Chapter One: A Fiery Dawn

Oh, how I hated the first rays of sun. When they struck my face, I attempted to cover my face with my bedroll. No, not yet. I didn't want to wake just yet. As I succumbed to daylight's wishes and decided to get up, I wondered why the sun couldn't grant me even an hour of peace.

I sighed in exasperation and sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes groggily. Beside me in another bedroll lay my cruel master, the chief of the bandit group that had found and captured me. Seeing that I was a disciple of Dibella, the chief had claimed me as his bedslave, thus keeping me up all night while he slept the day away. As I glared and sent mental daggers into the side of his head, he rolled over onto his side, away from me, and snored loudly.

How I hated that man. If I could, I would kill him mercilessly with my bare hands. But if I did do that, I'd be made into a pincushion by the other bandits. No, unable to run from or rebel in the bandit camp, I was trapped here as a captive prostitute. I was not allowed a single shred of dignity.

When anyone was awake, that is.

So I got up and covered my bare, bruised body with what was left of my humble dress. I looked into a nearby bucket of water to see my reflection. My long black hair, from the sheer amount of tangles and knots, had not seen a comb in weeks. My messy bangs half-covered sleep-deprived brown eyes ringed with dirt and smudged, faded kohl. I looked at the gaunt, emaciated face that was my own and held back tears. My body was going to be merely skin and bones if I didn't get a proper meal soon. Very soon. How I missed home, where I knew at the least food and sleep!

After I was somewhat presentable (as presentable as I could be, really) I stood and exited the tent. In the center of the ring of tents a small fire had already been prepared. Crouching next to the flames was one of the bandits, prodding it with a stick. He heard my bare feet crunch in the snow and looked back at me in surprise. He was a dunmer, a very strange one, for he had the bright blue eyes and braids of typical Skyrim nord. As he looked me over, his eyes sent shivers down my spine. The red eyes of the dunmer startled me already; one with blue eyes just seemed plain wrong to me. After he finished examining me he turned back to the fire and tossed his stick to the flames. He acted as if I wasn't there. No surprise, really.

Nonetheless, I crept closer to the fire. Not for company, of course, but for warmth against the bitter cold of an early Skyrim winter. Once I reached a comfortable level of heat, I turned my back to the fire and hugged my knees to my chest.

"Hungry?" the dunmer said unexpectedly, not looking at me, but at the flames. To be honest, I wasn't sure if he was even talking to me. And even if he was, he would most likely do what all the other bandits did to feed me: grind it into the dirt first. Whenever it was mealtime, whatever food they didn't want they threw to me to eat like a dog, but only allowed me to eat after they had squished it into the dirt first. I felt ashamed to do it, to eat those filthy morsels, but the need to survive usually overcame my pride. But this bandit, I remembered as I placed his strange, elvish face, didn't like to play. Or laugh or talk or even act human. He stood, sat, slept, ate and fought like a machine. I doubted he had any emotions. "Are you hungry?" he repeated mechanically, this time staring me down. I didn't grace him an answer. No matter what I said, the bandit would just fling whatever scraps he felt like giving me into the mud.

But he did not. He merely shrugged at my silence and reached into his pack for a loaf of bread. He sliced off the heel with his dagger and eyed it for a moment before throwing it into the fire. I suppressed a gasp when the flames consumed the perfectly good morsel. Oh, how hungry I was... and he was throwing food into the fire! Wasting it! But no, I would not eat another meal from the ground. Do what he will, even if I had to starve, I would no longer be the entertainment of filthy bandits. I wouldn't be their dog any longer. So I stared at him coolly, daring him to do it again.

Seeing my defiance, he sliced off another piece of bread, this time placing a thin slice of goat cheese on top of it. He held it up for me to see and raised a dark, bushy eyebrow. I did nothing. He deserved nothing, after all. And the succulent meal went to the fire. This time a barely audible groan escaped my lips. Since the dunmer evidently possessed no emotion, I could not tell as to whether or not he had heard me.

He did the process twice more, each time adding something to the bread to make it more appealing and appetizing, and I became horribly angry at him. He was teasing me terribly well and we both knew it.

Finally, when he displayed a thick slice of bread with a generous chunk of cheese on it, I spat, "If you throw that in the fire, I'll smack you." The dunmer said nothing and kept his blank expression. I was fuming and quite ready to pick up a rock and beat the brains out of that pretty elf skull of his with it. Suddenly, he took a large bite out of the bread slice. Before I could lunge for a nearby stone, he held the remaining loaf and cheese wedge out to me. I didn't understand.

"Take them," the elf said, taking another bite out of his breakfast. Furious and embarrassed by his trick, I quickly snatched them away from him before he could change his mind. "Zher ya go," he said, mouth full of food, "Zhat wasn't too hahrd." His eerie blue eyes laughed at me.

Chapter Two: The Stone Warrior

While the bandits were out raiding, they kept me in a cage. Like a captive animal, I was kept in a cage. And watching over me and guarding me in my cage usually was a bandit, and occasionally they left me alone.

Today, the blue-eyed dunmer was my keeper. Unlike the other bandits who usually watched over me, who got bored quickly and occasionally fell asleep, the dunmer watched my every move without fail. If I had my back to him, I would feel his gaze stab at me like daggers. And if I faced him, I would only find those eerie blue eyes bore into me. Once or twice I stared back at him in irritation, trying to make him as uncomfortable as he was making me. Even when I had to relieve myself his eyes followed me. I often felt the urge to reach through the bars of my prison and strangle him.

Finally, after two hours of being stared down, I blew up at him. "Oh, by the NINE stop looking at me!" When he didn't, I swore quite blasphemously and sat in the dirt in the corner of my cage farthest away from him. I picked up a nearby stick and began doodling in the dirt, a pastime I had discovered within my first few days or so in the bandit camp. Smiling wickedly, I drew myself wielding twin swords, killing all my bandit captors. As I sketched my imaginary victory, I began humming a song I had heard the bandits sing at the fire. I couldn't remember the words, but the melody was simple enough.

I nearly laughed as I drew the dunmer motionless on the ground along with the rest of the carnage I had wrought. I continued my humming, and quickly erased my doodles.

I nearly jumped when a rich tenor chimed in, "There once was a hero named Ragnar the Red who came riding to Whiterun from ol' Rorikstead..." I turned to see my keeper singing to my humming, and even after I fell silent he kept singing with an icy expression on his face, his eyes closed. He continued singing the song, and through the whole thing I did not move a muscle. When his comrades had sung their drinking songs, the dunmer had never joined them. If he had, his beautiful, tremulous tenor would have stuck out like a diamond among river stones. As he sang, even such a crude song as Ragnar the REd, I managed to forget where I was and what I had become.

I was back with my father in Markarth, before he had died, listening to him sing and play songs on his lyre that he had learned at the bard's college. We hadn't been wealthy, for he had been but a bard, but we had been the happiest father and daughter in all of Skyrim. After he died, however, I was left to fend for myself. Thus, I became an agent of Dibella. But as I remembered my father, all my woes of reality seemed to melt away and vanish altogether. My memories of my late father were fond ones.

When he finished, I plummeted back to reality. I was Ophelia Millais, bedslave to a bandit. I was less than nothing. My father would be ashamed.

The dunmer blinked, possibly in surprise, when I burst into tears. "What's wrong?" He said, staring at me, "Stop it." He told me to stop as if I could calm down instantly, but he soon learned that I didn't quite work that way. I only glared at him, tears flowing in rivers down my cheeks and chin. I hiccupped and sobbed uncontrollably. "Stop it." When nothing happened, he sighed and knelt by my bars. "Here. If you stop crying, I'll show you something interesting."

I scoffed.

He stared, waiting.

Slowly, I quieted myself. Tears wouldn't bring Papa back, and they wouldn't get me out of my predicament. And besides, I had nothing else to do in my cage anyway. I might as well see what the dunmer had to show me. He nodded at my obedience and turned to a table that was about four yards away. ON top of the table was an empty tankard. Then dunmer gestured to it with an open hand, palm upwards. Gradually, the tankard began to rattle and shake, and then it rocketed into the dunmer's waiting palm.

I was nothing short of amazed.

"It's called Telekinesis," he said, setting the tankard on the ground, "A mage threw himself into my axe and the spell tome was in his satchel. I read the book over and over... it took me an entire year to learn that spell." He then proceeded to knead one of his braids between his fingers, his dark cheeks obviously burning with embarrassment.

What? Bandits read? I must have said it aloud because the dunmer said while holding back a chuckle, "Well this one does." He looked at me with those bright blue eyes, which smiled and beamed at me with the pride the rest of him failed to reveal. "My name is Theldyn Mehra. Yours is Ophelia, right?"

Chapter Three: The Bird and the Fish

Out of all the bandits, Theldyn became the only one who was ever kind to me - although in his own unusual way. Every morning he offered me a portion of his share of vittles and then volunteered to watch over me in my cage whenever the bandits raided and pillaged. After a week or two of being my keeper, he let me out of my cage. Apparently, he trusted me enough not to run away.

His mistake allowed me to creep one step closer to escape.

Although he may have seen me as more as a slave, a friend possibly, he was still a bandit in my eyes. He had killed and pillaged and raped with his comrades. I was sure nothing, no amount of kindness, could change that fact. I still hated him, even if he gave me food and freed me from my prison.

If he knew of my unconditional hatred towards him he did not show it. Then again, he didn't show much of anything... except his exceptional magical talent. He seemed more than eager to show off his arcane knowledge to me. With me as his [captive] audience, he performed a wise array of tricks to me, such as lighting the campfire with a flash of his hands and conjuring a demonic-looking battleaxe from nothing. I couldn't help being awestruck by his tricks, and often found myself applauding him loudly and enthusiastically. After realizing this I would stick my hands in my armpits as if warming them, and turn my red face away from him.

When he noticed this his eyes would sparkle with laughter and a smile would tug slightly at his thin lips. "Why hide your feelings?" he asked when I sat on my hands, refusing to clap for the trick he had probably used to kill: cloaking himself in crackling lightning.

I scowled at him. Hypocrite. "Why hide yours?" He said nothing to that, and let the lightning armor spell fade. Without saying a word to me, he sat on his haunches and pondered the question for a minute or two.

After a while, he said quietly, "Do you really want to know?" I shrugged. I had nothing else to do. He inhaled deeply, and sighed. "People have died because of my emotions. I don't ever want to lose myself in them again." I snorted. He had probably killed many more people when he had no emotion as well. He looked at me with his cold blue eyes, usually jubilant and dancing at the sight of me, his friend, were now filled with sadness and regret. Such thoughts swimming in my mind were drowned by waves of pity, and curiosity. He continued, "They killed my mother, you know. I can't even remember why I was angry at her, but I stormed out of our house and when I came back I found her dead. Her heart," He touched his chest with a shaking hand, "had been torn out along with her liver , eyes, and tongue."

His eyes gleamed with unshed tears. "I could've protected her and saved her, if I had been there. But since I was furious at her for some trivial thing, I left her to whatever doom she met." He toyed with one of his braids, something he did whenever he felt torn by the emotions that must've raged like a stormy sea inside of him. "They think I killed her. They think me, her fourteen-year-old bastard, killed her. And since I'm a dunmer, the people of Windhelm believe that I could've used the parts that had been taken from her in some sort of necromantic ritual. Not to mention my father had raped my nord mother and begot me. They said I had inherited my evilness from that man. So they wanted to hang me, like they had my father before I had been born.

"But I ran. And here I am, nearly twenty years later, and I am still hunted like a dog in Eastmarch. Even though I've heard the murders have continued, even after I've been gone so long, and they still believe me to be their 'Butcher'." He shook his head. "All of my neighbors back in the Gray Quarter knew me to be innocent, for I loved my mother more dearly than anything. I couldn't have possibly done it, even if I wanted to."

I pitied him. Not thinking, I blurted, "But you've butchered people since then, as a bandit! I'm sure your mother wouldn't have wanted that." I suddenly realized what I had said and wanted to kick myself. He would surely get angry at me, maybe even attack me. Frantically, I looked for something nearby to protect myself with before that happened. When I saw nothing remotely close to me, I remembered that the bandits all had a knife strapped to their right thigh, just above the knee, to use if they were disarmed. If I could just grab that when he lunged for me...

... And he did. He grabbed me by the collar of my tattered dress and glared at me. "Hold your tongue, woman!" He shook me like a ragdoll then, anger overwhelming and taking control of him. "I've lived twenty years slaughtering people! I do not need you, a camp whore, telling me what I already know!" The stony appearance he usually kept up had vanished and was replaced with one of absolute rage. I felt genuinely terrified of him then. My stupidity might just get me killed this time.

"Please... please let me go... I'm sorry! Really, really I am!" I whimpered, trying to pry his hands off of me, "Please, I didn't mean it! Let me go!"

At my pitiful whimpering, he rage flared and his hands found their way to my throat. "You didn't mean it? Of course you did! Of course you meant it!" I felt my feet lift off of the ground, and the pressure on my neck hurt more than anything I had ever experienced before. I could get no air to my lungs, and when I tried to scream all that came out was a tiny, inaudible croak. "Why wouldn't you mean it? You know as well as I my mother would be ashamed of me! Don't lie to me! Don't you DARE lie to me!" He breathed heavily, tightening his grip on my throat. I gasped for air, and around me the world started to spin.

After sputtering and gasping, I managed to squeak, "Please... pl... ease..." I tore at his hands with my nails, doing anything to be released.

He stared at me for a moment with those eerie blue eyes of his, and slowly they became the eyes of a frightened child. With a choked cry, he dropped me to the ground. I coughed and choked in dirt and air, but I was glad to be alive. After I had a sufficient amount of air in my lungs, I looked up at Theldyn. He looked at his shaking hands, wide-eyed and scared, as if they had been drenched in blood for the first time. His gaze shifted gradually from his hands, to me, and then back to his hands again. Softly, he said, "What have I become?" He covered his eyes with his hands and choked back tears. "I'm sorry, so sorry..." I had the urge to say that it was fine, but after feeling the bruises on my neck I had second thoughts. "Are you okay?" he said, wiping his eyes with a brush of his forearm.

I rubbed my aching neck and said nothing. He frowned and looked down at his feet, ashamed. "I... please forgive me." He held out his hand to help me up, but I edged away from him. I didn't want him touching me. His face twisted in pain and he did his best to hold back his tears. "Well, if it means anything..." He paused for a moment, "I want to escape this hell just as much as you." He knelt and looked into my eyes. I looked away. "We could escape together, you and I. But... you probably don't trust me." He laughed bitterly. "But think about it - do you really want to spend the rest of your miserable life as a bedslave to a bunch of thugs?" No, no I didn't. But he was a thug himself. "I could teach you magic and how to fight; we could even escape together. We wouldn't have to stick together once we're safe. You could live a new life for yourself, you know."

I was confused by his sudden change. It was most likely guilt that made him say these things. But even if they were just fluffy lies, the idea of escape enthralled me. Slowly, I managed to form a sentence. "Teaching me your fancy magics and fighting would be like teaching a fish how to fly." I don't know exactly why I lied to him... it was probably because he scared me. I added coolly, "And how do you know that after you teach me I won't turn against you and kill you?" I stretched my neck, making sure he saw the marks he had inflicted.

He flinched as if I had stricken him. He replied uncertainly, "I don't know."